


A Little Piece of Space

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is forever altered. Mohinder holds onto the one thing that brings him peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Piece of Space

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mylar Fic Holiday Prompt Table: "White Christmas"

It has been a permanent winter for the past ten years.

The last time any of them saw the sun or felt its glow, basked beneath its rays, was before the self-anointed ‘Weatherman’ held the world hostage with demands for its government to heed his chaotic leadership. Declared a sociopath and a terrorist, negotiations faltered, editorials called upon the masses to ignore him and the general population insisted upon more restrictions for Specials. A respected handful of the evolved tried to present a united front against him, but he turned out be a man of his word.

No one expected it to take less than twenty minutes to block out the sun.

The Weatherman may have returned the called bluff with the Ace up his sleeve, but he did so at his own expense. Outcast and infamous, he disappeared into the winter of their discontent. “A beautiful death,” the poets called the near barren state life came to reside in. For a while the world tried to go on as usual, but an invisible balance had been tipped too far one way.

Chaos followed, as it always did when humans tripped over their own fallibility, and communities which learned to adapt (figuring out what to grow for food—and how to do it—in a bid to survive the constantly cool dusk) sprung up in pockets across the country (and world), but their security concerns meant selective entry, which in turn created a hierarchy most couldn’t pass or be bothered with.

The days—well, what technically occurs during those hours—aren’t too bad, if a bit gloomy and with a relentless breeze. At night the temperature drops drastically and without the proper precautions (heaters, clothing, basic necessities) the death toll rises. During those long hours, frost crystallizes window surfaces and rests atop the sidewalks, giving the distinct impression of an approaching Christmas that will never be as joyous as it once was.

A scarf, gloves and knit hat become a part of Mohinder’s armor, whether inside or out, but a smile is brought to his face when he can strip away the protective shields and live in the otherwise. Finding comfort in rather dire circumstances becomes the raisin d’etre. It is the wonderful unexpected he clings to greedily, with a sigh of relief.

Standing at the living room window, Mohinder stares at the frosted glass. Pressing his fingertips to the surface, he sucks in a sharp breath at the chill from outside. Footsteps sound out behind him until a familiar body is pressed against his. Mohinder leans back into the welcoming curves and watches Sylar extend his right hand over his shoulder until his fingers are touching the glass alongside Mohinder’s. A few seconds pass and the glass becomes warmer, melting the frost on the other side.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Sylar whispers in his ear as he turns him around.

Mohinder watches Sylar go to work, clasping Mohinder’s hands together and rubbing his own overtop. Then he raises them to his lips and blows a light stream of hot air. Mohinder watches in amusement and when Sylar raises his eyes to meet his gaze, Mohinder quirks an eyebrow.

They both know this posturing is unnecessary, but there is something to be said for the normalcy of the small stuff. Sylar, still holding Mohinder’s hands, lowers them and calls forth the controlled heat he stole from Ted another lifetime ago, warming Mohinder until he feels no chill at all. They never look away from one another.

“Better.” Mohinder smiles.

“It’ll be better once you’re out of all this rather excessive clothing.” Sylar tugs at one end of Mohinder’s scarf.

Inside their apartment they can be anything while the world is forever a white Christmas. They make the most of the handful of stockpiled candles, collected in the early days of the chaotic mess when no one know if it was the end of the world or not; rationed food, which they’ve learned to turn into (almost) delectable meals. For all the dreariness outside, they have made inside an array of welcoming colours, with crisp painted walls, blankets, pillows, and books strew about.

Clothing tossed aside, they wrap around each other in warmth Mohinder has never been able to describe or ascribe to anything or anyone other than Sylar. He can make them feel as if they are anywhere—a beach vacation, a cabin in the woods with a roaring fire)—but sometimes it’s enough for Mohinder to be right there in bed with Sylar draped across him, pressing his nose against the crook of Mohinder’s neck.

There was a time when Mohinder asked him repeatedly if he ever thought about trying to heat up the whole world, bring back the sun. Sylar never gave him a definitive answer beyond a gaze that lasted a few seconds and an unreadable expression. Mohinder has come to believe two possibilities: either Sylar is frustrated with not being able to prove himself to the world on such a grand scale (after all, it is a task of epic proportions) or Sylar enjoys the life they have together, just the two of them, with the world kept at bay and no judgments or expectations from anyone on the other side of the door.

Mohinder should despise Sylar’s selfishness. He should look upon the indifference to others as a weakness in his character, and if he over-rationalized the entire predicament the world has been dealt, he would make those connections and be guided by them. But human beings are not meant to be alone and Mohinder’s own selfishness refuses to let him risk the one taste of truly being part of someone else, a _we_ no one else gets a say in.

It’s intoxicating and thrilling. He’ll hold onto it until it’s pried from his clenched hands. The alternative…

Mohinder convinces himself that as long as the world continues in this stagnant state, void of the change that was once inevitable, he can keep the two of them frozen in time as well.

It’s become the natural order of things.


End file.
